


Conspiracy Theory

by Crux01



Category: Homeland
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crux01/pseuds/Crux01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More probing into that infinitely fascinating character, Dar Adal. This time involving Haissam Haqqani, Peter Quinn and yes, of course, donuts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conspiracy Theory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HomemadeLemonade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomemadeLemonade/gifts).



> Prompt fill for #51 on the LJ challenge here: http://carrie-quinn.livejo requested by   
> homemadelemonad
> 
>  
> 
> "I rewatched 4.11 the other week while sick and sofa bound and I would like to read about the approach/conversation between Dar and Haqqani that led to Dar being in the car with Haqqani in possession of Saul's tape and supposedly with certain assurances from Haqqani, if the later breakfast discussion with Saul can be believed. 
> 
> Dar and Haqqani would have likely covered the fact that Quinn was gunning for Haqqani. Did Dar agree Quinn was expendable, was he confident the good guys would find him first? Lockhart alluded to something going on in his phone call to Carrie - is Dar rogue here or was the approach blessed by Washington?"

"As-salamu 'alaykum." Haissam Haqqani stood up from the doctor’s couch on which he had been sitting, saline drip still attached to his arm. Smile wide, eyes dimmed with pain.

"Wa'alaykumu s-salam," Dar responded, hand on heart and as he moved forward to shake the offered hand.

"Come, we have a place prepared," Haissam indicated the way through a beaded curtain to a room beyond. It was darker, roof lower, more intimate than the other cavernous rooms of the old hospital building they were in. It had been furnished with traditional Afghan rugs and cushions, homely and unpretentious. A slight breeze blew in through an open window bringing the sound of children's laughter and the scent of fresh jasmine to compete with the clinical disinfectant smell drifting in from the adjacent medical room.

Dar removed his shoes at the threshold, sat on the cushions on the floor, cross legged, ignoring the complaints that screamed from his aged leg joints.

"Da Kuhdai Gehsai Raghi, the Arrow of God," Dar returned the smile. "It has been a long time." A young boy passed him a glass of sweetened tea which Dar accepted graciously as he threw a questioning look over the boy's head.

"He is dumb and mute," Haqqani responded. "Do not worry, your secrets are safe." He took a glass of tea too and sat back. "It is a long time since we fought together, my friend but we both recall the Mujahideen days were good. Were they not?"

"Yes indeed. I do not forget the help you gave me to escape the Ahmed Shah Massoud bombing, save for you those Al Qaeda operatives would have taken me out too. I will be forever grateful." He inclined his head. "But time passes and things move on. Tell me, it was not young Marwand I saw in the compound outside, a man now, with the fire in his eye and a Kalashnikov in his hand?"

Haqqani beamed proudly. "My first born son is now a man, ready for the fight."

"And the rest of your family?"

Haqqani's face darkened. "They prosper as well as they might in a country that has been stolen from us. When will your lot go home?"

"You know why we are here, Haissam. The war on terror must be fought."

"I know it is a sham. We did not fly those planes into the World Trade Centre. Both you and I knew Bin Laden, knew he was not capable of planning let alone executing such an audacious act from a cave in the Swat Valley. The CIA, though, now there's a different story." 

"Be very careful what you say Haissam, I would hate to have to end our friendship in these circumstances." Dar kept his voice light but the threat hovered over the conversation growing like a thunder cloud. He took another sip of the tea, wished for something stronger.

"Like the women in my village you weave a complex tapestry but yours in knotted and tangled, too messy." The boy refilled Dar's glass as Haqqani continued. "You keep the fear going, just enough to paralyse the mob, to ensure they need you to protect them from this perceived Islamic threat, to keep the money coming in from Congress."

"And you are no threat?"

"Oh, I hope we are, that is why we fight you still, against the odds. You will not take our freedom."

"Because young boys blowing themselves to pieces is what freedom is all about, of course." Dar snapped impatiently.

"For a place in paradise, of course it is. Far better that than the lingering doped up death that your society provides its youth."

"With opium that comes from Afghani poppy harvests." Dar suddenly felt hot, uncomfortable. He had not come here to be preached at by a brute.

"Opium from farms funded by CIA money, but I'm not talking about heroin, I'm talking about cable tv, Micky Mouse, Coca Cola, McDonalds... the unadulterated crap you feed the masses, their new religion, keeping them stupid, stable, fat, like cattle before the slaughter." Haqqani seemed to be relishing the chance to voice his theories.

"Status quo is the imperative. The world must remain steady on its access. Power must be retained in the hands of the few who can wield it correctly." Dar replied keeping his voice as mild as he could.

Haqqani shook his head. "And they call me evil, if they only knew the deadly web you spin." He sipped his tea. "Afghanistan has been the grave yard of empires for centuries. It will be so again for the new bloated, monopolistic, multinational oligarchy you and your masters seek to impose on us. Your world will end in flames. Only Islam offers a formula for creating a just and godly society."

"And my people believe you are an unlearned beast; how little they know." Dar sighed. "It is an argument we will never find agreement in, my friend. So let us move on to more personal business. The reason why I am here. There were three names on your kill list and all of them are still breathing, I am disappointed, Haissam."

"I am disappointed too, my friend. Disappointed that the embassy was not as unguarded as you lead me to believe, disappointed that most of my men were martyred and disappointed that this," he reached across and dropped the large file of names he had stolen in the raid on to the floor, "Was not what you would have me believe."

"Arrh, not quite the list of contacts you expected, I grant you, rather the names and business addresses of all the democrats currently sitting in the House of Representatives in Washington. Lily-livered bastards, how they would crap themselves if they knew you hold their details!" 

"It is useless to me," Haqqani spat.

Dar's eyes twinkled. "You never did get irony, did you, Haissam?"

"I should kill you now!" Haqqani leaned forward aggressively.

Dar remained confidently placid. "I think not, I am your guest after all and you are not stupid enough to kill your best link to the corridors of power, are you?"

"What do you want?" All sense of comradeship, of shared history was gone now. The room oozed tension and the possibility of violence.

Dar seemed unaffected, calm, focused. This was why he had come. "To cut a deal, to salvage what can be salvaged from this fuck up. To do what I always do, clean up the mess and make it right again!"

"Then call off the CIA assassin scum that hunts me. You can do that, can you not?"

"Of course," Dar purred smoothly. "And you are right to make that your first concern. He is very good, one of my best, maybe the best." He looked around the room, wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Your paltry defences will not keep him out." He took a long sip of the tea. "He's very much like you."

Haqqani stiffened. "Do not liken me to such infidel trash."

"Viscous, driven, resolute. Prepared to go to extremes that other men would shy away from, follows through undaunted, fearless. Like one of those clockwork soldiers I played with as a kid, wind them up and they just keep going," Dar continued. "Oh, yes, the two of you are cut from the same cloth. It was his bullet they just dug out of your shoulder." He sighed. "He winged you, strange that, he so rarely misses the vitals. Fortuitous for you though." Another sip. "He always follows my orders too, my clockwork soldier." The boy stepped forward to refill his cup. Dar covered the glass with his hand and said, "Bas". The boy bowed and moved away.

"What do you want?" Haqqani's voice was ice cold in the sudden, oppressive heat of the room.

"Ah," said Dar. "And here's the rub as ever but nothing too onerous, I assure you. All copies of the video you made of Berenson and should other copies somehow become available, an assurance on your honour they will never be released. And, since you will be in Kabul by Christmas, a commitment not to harbour any terrorists in Afghanistan. 

"And I get what?"

"In exchange I call off my clockwork soldier and take your name off the kill list."

Haqqani regarded him intently.

Dar sat completely still, his features moulded into a pleasant, curious look, his eyes, hard as granite, never blinking, never leaving Haqqani's. This was his battlefield, his forte, where he felt more alive than at any other time in his existence. The hint of a negotiation caused him to salivate like the bell did Pavlov's dogs and he welcomed the euphoric rush as endorphins cascaded around his body like he was a distance runner crossing the marathon finish line. He was an old man, hot flushes and anxiety stole his sleep in the night and aches and pains in previously undiscovered places wracked through him in the day. Physical sensation held no joy for him now but mental stimulation was different. The thrill of taking the pegs of truth and hanging on them a past that was how he wanted it to be, making his own history, manipulating the facts to fit his own requirements so that he turned the heads of other, more powerful men, carving the future from the tombstones of the men he lost, that was what made it all worthwhile, that was his reason to be. It was his drug of choice.

Outside the children's laughter had been silenced. In its stead came the noises of a restless crowd, angry voices raised, shouting, but specific words indecipherable. The dangerous atmosphere from inside the room seemed to have diffused to the world outside. Fear and anger were now borne on the breeze, the scent of jasmine lost beneath the stench of sweat and dread.

"Very well," Haqqani responded finally.

Dar allowed himself a long sigh, the pleasure of success greater than any sexual gratification he could remember, but satisfaction was his only for one crystallised perfect instant, and then he damped it down, became business once more. "Very good. Then might I suggest we leave here right away? As I said, I fear for your safety and wish to get you out of the city as soon as possible."

There was a triumphant stiffness in Dar's shoulders, an almost boyish skip to his walk, and a satisfied smile on his lips as he preceded the Taliban leader out into the hot sun-drenched compound to where the dusty green Mercedes car waited. 

Oh, he loved to play the game, did Dar Adal, but most of all he loved to win it!

 

**********************************************************

 

The figure dressed in black walked purposefully to the door of the gaggle of aircraft hangers that clung together, nestled in the anonymity of the undulating hills. The surrounding countryside was desolate, barren, the air field strategically situated far from curious eyes, an ideal starting point for many a Black Ops mission. 

It was a warm evening, and a dusty wind blew grains of dirt skyward giving a greyish tinge to dim the long ribbons of vermillion clouds that streaked across the darkening sky in a brilliant but tainted sunset that heralded the dying of the day.

Dar indicated his limousine should draw up beside the figure as the cab that had deposited it retreated back toward the freeway. He stretched across the back seat, lowered the window. "A word, Peter," he commanded sternly.

The figure stopped, stiffened but did not turn to look at him. After a long pause, he resumed his silent walk towards the door again.

"Do you really think I'll allow you on my mission without a conversation, Peter?" Dar called. "It's not going to happen."

Quinn stopped again, this time turned around. "Rob asked me...."

"Fuck, Rob," Dar cut across him. "We need to talk."

Quinn looked away, chewed his lip and then nodded. He dropped the holdall he was carrying and moved toward the car. Dar slid along the seat, not hiding his look of satisfaction, he loved to win even the smallest battles.

Quinn stooped, curled his long, lithe limbs, firmly harnessing their potential for sudden and violent movement and got into the car. Once he was settled Dar passed him a brown paper bag, Quinn accepted it, peered in suspiciously at the sugary donuts contained within, drew in an impartial breath and gently deposited the bag and contents on the seat between them.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Dar, welcome gift rejected, spat angrily at him.

"Around." Quinn's smile was thin and tight and sort of ended somewhere around his cheekbones as if cut away by the sharp edge of their precision.

Dar regarded him minutely, hooded, dark eyes running over the familiar acerbic features, seeking answers to questions he would never ask. Accepting the most obvious truth before him; Quinn was different. Always had been wired tight, but now it was as if that wire was stretched to its furthest extreme, straining, pulled thin and taunt, the very instant before it snapped. The volatility in the man was palpable, the edge tottering frighteningly close bringing to the observer a deep seated fear as if something very dark was about to poke above the surface.

"Are you OK?" Dar asked with no little concern.

Quinn shrugged, looked down. "Pre-mission nerves," he murmured, white knuckled hand clenching the door handle as if he would open it and leave at any moment, Adam's apple gulping. "I should be going."

"I wanted to see you first, to check."

"Check what?" Quinn's eyes flashed around the car, resting on nothing. He was transient, opaque, so lacking in permanence and clarity, he almost was not there. It was as if he was gone on the mission, was lost already.

Dar tried to bring him back, ground him. "You went fucking AWOL in a war zone, Peter! You didn't even tell me you were in Islamabad for Christ sake. Last thing I heard you were out. We said goodbye, I wished you a good life as I recall, even brought donuts! So I ask again, are you OK?"

Quinn sniffed, eyes glancing over the brown paper bag as he lifted his hand to his mouth, rubbed his cheek nervously. "Maybe I just wanted a second chance," he said finally, deflated like a two-week old balloon, air gone. The bitterness wasn’t only in his voice. It was in his eyes, the angle of his mouth and the tightness of his shoulders.

"A second chance!" Dar let his frustrated anger speak. "And why the fuck should I give you that after the shit you've pulled the last couple of weeks?" he drew in a long breath, shook his head. "There are no second chances, not from me, not in our profession; you know that. No sentiment, no fucking happy ever after," he said without a touch of pity. "Let's be real, we're all just bags of meat and gristle with a few sparks of electricity running through. No ghosts, no spirits, no souls, nothing that lives on. The only thing that survives is the story people tell about us after we're gone. The only thing that matters is what we achieve, the difference we make, which is why it is so important to make a difference."

"How fucking cheerful," Quinn retorted with a disrespectful sniff. "Remind me to look you up when I'm feeling really down."

Dar ignored the insolent irony, returning to the subject in hand. "What the fuck do you think you were doing in Islamabad? Have you any idea how close you came to blowing a vital mission apart?"

"I was killing terrorists; in case you've forgotten that's my fucking job!" Quinn snapped but then leaned back into the cool, high grade leather of the luxury car seat, eyes flashing. "What mission?"

Oh, he might be burnt to a frazzle, aching inside, hanging on only barely, but Quinn's mind was still quick as it pieced together fact from limited intel. He was still dangerous. Dar made a dismissive gesture. "Above your pay grade," he said too quickly.

Quinn's eyebrows rose and Dar could almost see the ongoing argument in the younger man's mind. In the end reliability appeared to win and with a slight shake of his head Quinn gave up, let go, the dog dropping the bone. He looked done in, almost too tired to function, smaller, less alive, as he said, "So what now?"

"I need you to convince me you are fit enough for Syria," Dar said.

Quinn let out a humourless chuckle. "Oh, that's all I'm fit for," he muttered dejectedly.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"I am what you made me." The look on Quinn's face was one of complete disgust like when a plan, once rejected for its repugnance, came back to his mind bringing that sick, sinking feeling of inevitability, the knowledge of something horrible he had always known he would do and had tried to forget, now coming back to taunt him.

Dar held his gaze. "Are you? Are you really Peter? Because lately I am beginning to wonder. You've changed and not in a good way. Used to be you were reliable, give you a job and it would get done, but now." He shook his head. "Too many fuck ups! Are you really still cut out for this line of work? Maybe you should retire to the sticks, start a family, be normal."

Quinn's breathing had increased as his countenance paled. He sat forward on the seat his bottom had only the barest connection to the leather, most of his weight taken on the balls of his feet, legs coiled like springs in the limited space of the seat well, holding on even tighter, ready to surge forward. It was easy to see that Dar's sharp words were hurting like the thrust of a dagger between the ribs. 

What the fuck had happened? What had sent Quinn scurrying back to the Group, strung out and desperate to get away? What was wrong with his clockwork soldier? Dar was probing, seeking the information, as focused as a drone in a clear blue sky. The muscle of Peter's jaw, from the very first time they had met back in that Baltimore Police Station; two cold and friendless souls on Christmas Eve, always the indicator that fiery emotion from below sought a release, was pulsing and his ice blue eyes were melting with angry pain. He was breaking apart, hurting more intensely than Dar had ever known but also as Dar watched he was rebuilding himself, fixing his gaping cracks with the crusty cement of purpose.

It was Mathison, of course, the root of the problem, Dar had suspected and could now see this for sure. Even working on only the meagre scraps Quinn was giving him, it was not hard for someone with Dar's knowledge of the human psyche to see what had happened. Jesus Christ, she had rejected him! Dear lovesick Peter Quinn, had, for once, found the courage to not only feel his emotions but actually act on them. And that haughty blonde bitch had cast him adrift! What were the lyrics to that damn Leonard Cohen song that had been floating around Dar's head for weeks - "love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.' Quite right too and it was about time that Peter, for all his worldly wise, leant it.

But still, unbidden, a wave of hatred for the selfish woman who had hurt his protégé threatened to ripple through Dar, he quelled it effortlessly with the thought that what she had done had brought Quinn back, desperate and hurting to be sure, but back nevertheless. He was running back to what he knew, immersing himself in the only world he prospered, reverting to use the finely tuned skills he had, looking for a foundation, an anchor to hold him steady in a tumultuous sea. And for Peter Quinn that meant only one thing; making war. Poor bastard!

Dar regarded his protégé again. He, more than any, knew Peter Quinn's story. Knew he had been often unappreciated by those he served. Knew he, over and over again, put his own self between danger and those he had sworn to protect, suffered physically and mentally but still sticking doggedly to the path he walked, even when his leaders were unworthy of him, and Dar classed himself as much as any in that negative assessment. Dar knew Quinn was a good soldier, one of the best. And was reminded again of how much like Haissam Haqqani Quinn was. Both efficient ruthless warriors, they had each given away vast volumes of themselves, so much that precious little remained to bind them to humanity, to make war, not for personal gain but to create a better place, an ideal, a dream. Dar wondered if he had ever been so selfless, and knew the instant the thought sparked in his synapses, he had not.

Like a chess grand master Dar was prepared to lose a beloved pawn but only if the payoff was significantly more than the sacrifice. He did not want to destroy Quinn for no reason, far from it, he just wanted the old Quinn back, his clockwork soldier, and he saw clearly that overlooking his erratic recent behaviour, taking him back into the fold, sending him to Syria now, would be the way to achieve that. His boy wanted to come home, Dar would indulge him. So he pulled back from further criticism, relaxed, figuratively withdrew the damaging knife from between his victim's ribs and smiled supportively. 

"Ok, you've convinced me," he beamed.

Quinn did not move but the taunt wire loosened just a little. In the confines of the car he suddenly seemed bigger, firmer, less grey, the balloon inflating once more. He paused and then "I want Haqqani," he said, eyes flashing with intent in the gathering gloom.

Dar shook his head. "It's not going to happen. You know he's back in the tribal areas enjoying the full protection of the Pakistani Armed Forces. He is, to all intents and purposes, untouchable."

"That will change," Quinn sniffed knowingly. "When he steps out of line, when he's not our 'friend' any more. I want him." The desperation in him had hardened, worked metal after the forge, into cold, iron resolution.

Dar hesitated, wondered if Quinn's sudden certainty was rooted in his slip of earlier, should he call Quinn out on that last remark, protest his innocence, denounce the Taliban leader as no friend of his. But he decided against it, knowing that Quinn was wise enough in the ways of their world and pragmatic enough to accept it for now. "I'll bear your request in mind," he said. 

He moved on, to ask the question that had been bothering him. He had been wondering since his cavalier boast to Haqqani that he could control the assassin that hunted him, just how much of a risk he had taken. "Why didn't you take the chance to eliminate the fucker when you had it?"

Quinn stiffened. He looked Dar straight in the eye, unblinking, relentless. "Never got close enough."

"I don't believe you." 

Quinn looked away, shrugged. "Believe what you like." In a fluid, sudden movement, he opened the door and stepped out of the car, bending to pick up his bag. 

Not believing, Quinn's answer, Dar couldn't resist one last dig to make sure he still had the upper hand. He leaned out of the window. "If anyone comes asking for you, what should I say?"

"Fuck you, Dar!" Quinn threw over his shoulder contemptuously not even bothering to turn around. He disappeared into the darkness of the sparse terminal building.

Dar closed the window, as he did so his phone bleeped with an incoming call. He glanced at it, saw it was from Carrie Mathison and with a deliberate shake of the head chose to ignore it. Instead he leaned back into his comfortable seat, retrieved a donut, took a bite and smiled as the saccharine sweetness exploded his taste buds.

"Take me home, James," he said to his driver. "I think I will be having a visitor soon and she is gonna be pissed."

 

************************************************************


End file.
